


[Gift] Signs

by OneofWebs



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Blood and Injury, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Improper Use of Axii (The Witcher), Improper Use of Witcher Signs (The Witcher), M/M, Masturbation, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:02:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28290588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/pseuds/OneofWebs
Summary: Jaskier has an inappropriate enjoyment of the signs. He puts himself in danger just to watch Geralt use them, because they leave him feeling aroused. Little does he know that Geralt realizes that, and soon after, Jaskier finds that being the target of those signs is even better than just watching.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 284





	[Gift] Signs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [justanotherqueerboy on Tumblr](https://justanotherqueerboy.tumblr.com/) | [SFM_Obsession on Twitter.](https://twitter.com/SFM_Obsession) He makes great stuff, so check him out!

When the harpies drew near, the first thing Geralt did was push Jaskier to the side, where he toppled down in the rain against the base of a tree. His first reaction was an indignant, angry one—what was Geralt on about now? But Geralt had heard the harpies before Jaskier did, sensed them descending from the sky. They’d gotten too close to a nest, but not close enough for Geralt to find it. He still couldn’t find it. All he knew was that harpies were coming, and his first reaction was to make sure Jaskier stayed _safe_.

“Don’t move,” Geralt ordered, his voice gruff. Already, his eyes were darting to the side, into the clearing where he heard the harpies coming.

“Geralt—”

“Don’t _move_ ,” he said again, rougher this time. “Just stay here. I’ll take care of it.”

Geralt pushed away just as quickly as it had all begun, stepping away through the mud and into the clearing, leaving Jaskier to cower against the base of the tree. Jaskier wrapped his arms around his lute, holding it against his chest, and tried to steady his breathing. There was always danger when traveling with Geralt, but it wasn’t always so close and found out in such a panic. The look on Geralt’s face was seared into Jaskier’s vision, as if Geralt had actually been _afraid_. Even if for only a brief flash, Geralt had been afraid. Afraid for Jaskier.

However much that left an ache in Jaskier’s chest, he was only so prone to doing as he was told. Geralt told him to stay by this tree so that he could be _safe_ , but Jaskier still pushed himself up onto his knees. Laundry was a problem for another version of himself, a version who would likely be angry about digging his silks into mud, but he had to watch this. He’d seen Geralt fight just enough to know that he couldn’t miss it for the world. Already, just watching Geralt draw forth his silver sword, Jaskier had his teeth in his bottom lip.

The harpies came rushing down in a flurry of shrieking and feathers, and Geralt readied himself to fight them back. It was the first thing Jaskier noticed, the movement of Geralt’s lips and his fingers—the rush of a sign. Jaskier knew them all by heart, now, and how they manifested themselves. It was hard to catch it if one wasn’t paying attention, but Jaskier’s eyes were peeled. Geralt used Quen and was covered safely in a shield just as a harpy struck.

Quen reacted to the touch of the harpy’s claw, a veritable explosion breaking away from Geralt that sent the harpy flying back. Geralt followed the force with a strike of his own, swinging his sword through the air and cutting right through the beast’s wing. It hit the ground, shrieking with its pain, only to be silenced a moment later. As he turned, Geralt renewed the shield, and Jaskier shuddered at the sight of it.

Something about _magic_ was so unrestrained that watching Geralt have this sort of power over it left Jaskier breathless. He loved to watch it, the way that Geralt moved and commanded his signs. Each time a harpy came for him, just the touch of their claw or their wing or their beak backfired as Quen did its job and protected Geralt. Each resounding shock wave was hard enough and powerful enough that even Jaskier could feel it shaking through the ground, rushing through the trees and the grass.

He gripped onto the bark of the tree, swallowing hard. Three harpies down, but more were coming. They didn’t always attack as a single unit, but these next ones were. A crowd of them, three of four; it was difficult for Jaskier to see in the dark, but he could see the glow of Geralt’s eyes, the widening of his slitted pupils. Geralt could see perfectly, and instead of Quen on his breath, it was Igni. A rush of flame flew through the sky, lighting the forest clearing up with light and the shrieks of harpies.

Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat, and on instinct, one hand went from the tree to hold at his neck, as if it would help him breathe. Geralt looked so powerful, like he knew exactly what he was doing. In the sudden brightness from fire, another use of Igni, Jaskier saw something, too, that he hadn’t been expecting to see. Geralt looked back for him, back to the tree, to ensure that Jaskier was still unharmed. Even if that glance came with a flash of disappointment that Jaskier couldn’t do as he was told, there was no time for Geralt to stop in his attacks.

He whirled around, heels braced in the mud, and sliced an attacking harpy right out of the air. Still, Jaskier heard the low grunt of a wound. Not quite fast enough to cut the harpy down without injury because he was too busy making sure Jaskier was safe. Jaskier swallowed again, a sudden lump in his throat, and squeezed right at the base of his neck. What was Geralt doing? He was going to get himself killed, and _then_ what would happen to Jaskier?

All Jaskier could do was watch; it wasn’t as if he’d ever picked up a sword before, and he’d certainly never fought a beast with wings. Geralt had it under control. So perfectly under control that Jaskier was comfortable enough to feel this spread of _warmth_ down through his spine and his hips. Another harpy cut down, and then another sudden rush of uncontrolled magic through the air. More fire, pulling shrieking beast after beast down from the sky with their feathers aflame so Geralt could rend their head from their necks.

Just like that, it was over. Embers were burning low, and Geralt was standing in the middle of the carnage with panting breath and a heaving chest. He stood for just long enough to collect himself. There was a strange scent in the air, one that left his nose crinkling, but he tried to look past it. The job wasn’t done until he’d found the nest, and he couldn’t just leave Jaskier here while he went out and found it. It was dangerous at his side, but at least he could protect Jaskier if Jaskier were that close.

Geralt turned back towards the tree, jogging back over and dropping down to one knee. It was like Jaskier could smell the magic on him, could still see it coursing through his eyes and veins visible through his ghastly white skin.

“Are you injured?” Geralt asked. His arm jolted forward but stopped short and rested on the tree instead of where he _meant_ to put it. Geralt swallowed and shook his head. “Jaskier?”

“I’m fine,” Jaskier insisted. “I’m alright. You’re not. Perhaps you should worry more about _yourself_ —”

“Job’s not finished,” Geralt grunted. “Look at it when we’re done. Let’s go.”

In response, Jaskier frowned, but he didn’t refuse the command. When Geralt stood, Jaskier stood after him and shifted his lute to his back. That satisfied Geralt enough that they could get started, and just like they had been, they were back to walking through the forest. Before, Jaskier had been chattering through all of it, loud enough that Geralt could have heard him over the rain even without his superhuman hearing. Now, Jaskier was silent, gripping onto the strap of his lute case like his life depended on it.

Everything felt a bit strange, now. Jaskier would be a fool to deny the way that he felt _watching_ Geralt like that. This wasn’t the first time he’d felt that first prickling warmth of arousal, after all. It was just the first time that Jaskier had felt more on top of it. Geralt had gotten hurt making sure Jaskier wasn’t in any danger; that wasn’t something that Jaskier was just going to ignore, even if it brought things up to the surface that he didn’t want to think about.

Especially with his own attraction to _this_. He could certainly understand what made Geralt look at Yennefer. The way anyone could control something so chaotic had to be arousing, and Jaskier certainly couldn’t do anything quite so fancy. He could play his lute and sing a song, but that wasn’t controlling pure, unbridled chaos with what looked like perfect ease. If Geralt liked the wild as much as he seemed to, then Jaskier just wasn’t the right type of wild to get his attention.

And still, Geralt had sacrificed his own safety to ensure Jaskier’s. Even now, as they walked through the woods, any sound or scent that Geralt caught wind of had him glancing back over his shoulder to ensure Jaskier wasn’t in danger. If not for his senses, he might have even been looking to ensure Jaskier was still following him, but he could hear Jaskier’s footsteps through the grass and the mud, and he could smell that scent emanating from him.

It was a smell that was becoming familiar, though Geralt was struggling to place exactly what it was. He’d smelled arousal; he’d smelled Jaskier’s arousal. This wasn’t quite the same. This wasn’t the way that Jaskier smelled when he thought he was far enough away that Geralt wouldn’t be privy to his quick pull off. If it were just that smell, it wouldn’t bother Geralt as much as it did, but the subtle differences left him wondering just what it meant.

There was little time to continue dwelling on it. Geralt was focused on something other than Jaskier, as scandalous as that might have been, and it was the scent that took them straight to the harpies’ nest. It must have been a small nest, meaning that the harpies Geralt had already killed were the only ones that dwelt here. No more met them or attacked; it was just an empty nest with egg.

“So just—what do you do with this?” Jaskier asked, hurrying up to Geralt’s side. “Are the eggs any good? Do you think we could keep one and try it for breakfast? I’ve heard tales of harpy eggs, though I’ve never known if they were edible.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt gruffed. “We’re not eating them. They’re likely ready to hatch, so unless you want to eat a harpy fetus—”

Jaskier shook his head. “No. No thank you, Geralt, actually. You can, well, do away with them in whatever way you please.” Jaskier held up his hands and stepped back.

Geralt stepped forward, then, and Jaskier watched with apt curiosity at just what Geralt intended to do. The goal was no more harpies, of course, so would he smash the eggs? Would he actually take them so they could sell them somewhere? They had to be valuable, if not to all merchants, to the right one. Maybe he might even grind one up and use it for a potion—Jaskier knew little of what Geralt brewed up with his alchemy supplies, but he certainly did it whenever they stopped to camp.

Instead, Geralt cast a sign. Igni lit up before them, catching the twigs and the foliage of the nest as kindle. Within seconds the, whole nest was aflame, the eggs and feathers included. As it burned, Geralt stepped back and stood beside Jaskier where they could both watch at a safe distance. That, and the distance now not between them allowed Geralt to pick up something more than he’d been able to earlier, when they were too far apart of this subtle thing to make it through the air.

Jaskier watched Geralt cast the sign, and it _did_ something. What it did, Geralt wasn’t quite sure, but he could smell that little prickle, and he could see it in Jaskier’s eyes. His eyes were wide, struggling to maintain their gaze on the fire instead of looking to the side, towards Geralt. That meant something.

“We should get going,” Geralt said, turning to face Jaskier. “If we make it back out of the forest, be in town before nightfall.”

Jaskier looked at him, shocked. “You don’t want to simply make camp?”

“Need to get Roach.” They’d left her near the entrance path, as the forest was just too dense for her to make it through easily. “Might as well make it back to town.”

Jaskier scoffed, then folded his arms. Geralt was already walking away, the fire dwindling down on its own, so Jaskier followed.

“Only, Master Witcher, if you’ll grant me a ride. I am _not_ walking back to town after all of this. We either camp, or you—”

“Sure,” Geralt said, and that almost had Jaskier halting in his tracks. That hadn’t been what he expected.

“Wait, you mean it?” Jaskier had to jog to catch back up with Geralt, who hadn’t stopped for his antics. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“I dragged you out here. Might as well take you back.”

This was a first, and it wasn’t something that Jaskier was going to pass up, either. They just had to get out of the forest, first, and then they had to get back into town.

It wasn’t the first time that Jaskier had felt this way about Geralt’s signs, and it wouldn’t be the last. The first thing Geralt did on their way out of town was buy matches, and for what, Jaskier didn’t know. Still, they were matches for him, so Jaskier took them and tucked them into his bag.

Neither was it the first time that Geralt had smelled that peculiar scent Jaskier gave off, and now, Geralt was on a mission to discover what it meant. The matches were for a bit of an experiment. All Geralt wanted to know is if Jaskier would actually use them, or if he would continue to rely on Geralt’s ability to make fire out of nothing. If Jaskier went straight to using means of his own, then Geralt would know that he was making this up to suit his own needs. If something different happened, however, Geralt would just need to keep pushing until he sorted it out.

All that remained was just how long it would take for something to happen. Part of Geralt hoped that it wouldn’t be much time at all, and that something _would_ happen. Whatever this was had him interested, and he wanted to take it forward. Disappointment was sure to take him if it turned out that he’d picked up signs that weren’t there. All he had to do was pay closer attention. Better attention.

Everything began as it always did, with another backwater town that hated Witchers and another contract. Jaskier trailed along because he could; he wanted the rush of danger, and he needed the inspiration for _song_. Geralt, loathed as he was to admit it, enjoyed the company. Being a Witcher was lonely work, and as annoying as Jaskier could make himself to be, there were times where his company was pleasant. Relaxing, even. They found a routine together, even if there were things in that routine that one of them might have noticed that the other did not.

Geralt noticed Jaskier’s attentiveness, how no matter Geralt’s own order to stay hidden, to stay _safe_ , Jaskier was always trying to peek out and watch Geralt work. No matter the danger it might mean Jaskier was putting himself in, he was always trying to _see_ —and then that smell would return. It was getting distracting, but Geralt pushed through and fought through his contracts in the same manner he always tried to: diligently.

Jaskier, of course, noticed something entirely different. Despite the signs and how much he enjoyed watching Geralt with that kind of _power_ , there was the softer things that had Jaskier looking twice. These things were so much less about how attractive they were, but how kind and stupid. Geralt, constantly checking on Jaskier to ensure that he was safe. It didn’t matter if they were in the thick of a battle or just walking from town to town, Geralt asked. Looked. Wondered.

And Jaskier didn’t know what it meant. He just knew that it had been a long day, and it was one of these strange little check-ins that was just something enough that Geralt actually stopped Roach. Jaskier still didn’t get to ride her very often, but he was beginning to understand why. With the supplies and equipment Geralt carried with him, Roach likely couldn’t handle another full grown man on her back.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, “you’ve hurt your foot.”

“What?” Jaskier looked up from where he’d been watching his own steps. “I haven’t. Whatever are you going on about?”

Geralt just raised his eye, and a second after, Jaskier realized exactly what Geralt was talking about. When he took his next step, there was a pang through the ball of his foot that stretched all the way through the tendon along his heel. Jaskier winced, then finally came to a stop. Roach had already stopped.

“I suppose I have,” Jaskier remarked, a bit surprised that Geralt had noticed something like that.

Given enough time, Jaskier would be able to walk this off; it wasn’t the first time that walking had given him a bit of a cramp. Geralt wasn’t usually one to stop if Jaskier was hurt, anyway, though Jaskier’s wounds rarely impeded his ability to walk. It must have had something to do with the late hour, Jaskier decided. They were an hour or two early, but it would be time to make camp soon enough. They hadn’t quite made it to town.

“We’ll set up camp.” Geralt decided.

With the decision made, Jaskier just followed. He limped slightly on their way off the road, but it wasn’t so bad that he truly needed to stop, and not bad enough that he needed to ride—but the offer was made. Geralt was ready, right then, to jump off of Roach and let Jaskier ride her instead. But Jaskier refused. They were just moments away from a good spot, and he didn’t want to risk Geralt holding that one over his head. Even if it wouldn’t happen.

Jaskier just wasn’t sure about _any_ of this. Why was Geralt being so careful with him? He wasn’t about to tell Geralt to _stop_ , but it was almost too obvious that something was shifting between them. What it was, Jaskier would figure out after his foot cramp had gone away. As long as Geralt was being this attentive, he was going to take advantage of it. Geralt got him something to sit on, and then took to setting up camp mostly on his own. But then there was that question.

“Can you get the fire going?” Geralt asked. “Need to go find us something to eat. Stream not too far down to the south. Fish to your taste?”

Jaskier blinked. “The fire? I don’t think that I can.” He swallowed, watching as Geralt turned to look at him. He’d stripped down from some of his armor, nothing but a shirt, and it was impossible not to watch the way his muscles rippled.

“What about those matches I gave you?”

They were sitting in Jaskier’s bag, which he hadn’t quite taken the time to remove. All he had to do was take them out, light one, and set flame to Geralt’s masterfully made pile of kindling. There were already thicker sticks set aside to add to the fire and keep it going, and Jaskier _did_ know how to tend to a fire. He wouldn’t smother it, even if Geralt were to head down to the stream to fish.

“I must have forgotten them in the last town,” Jaskier said, swallowing down the sound in his voice that meant he was lying. “Forgive me, Geralt. I should be more careful with your coin.”

Geralt gave an amused scoff, then shook his head. With such a strange reaction, he knew Jaskier would stare at him, but Geralt was happy to hear that. He could practically smell the lie off of Jaskier, but it _meant_ something. That Geralt wasn’t making things up or seeing reactions that weren’t there. Jaskier wanted to see this; otherwise, he would just use the matches.

“We’ll get new ones in town, then,” Geralt decided. With a wave of his fingers, the fire came to life.

Jaskier watched it with wide-eyes, almost shuddering. He always watched how Geralt moved to start the sign, and then he had to watch what the sign did, and _then_ , Jaskier didn’t know what to do with himself. So wrapped up in the flame, he missed the chuckle in Geralt’s throat and the fond smile on his face.

“Be back with some dinner,” he said, and that was good enough to be his cue of an exit. Jaskier was too caught up in what he’d just witnessed to even make some comment about the matches—which they would not be buying again.

Already, Geralt could see the scene play out before him. They’d go to buy the matches, and Jaskier, overcome with guilt for making Geralt spend coin that he didn’t _need_ to spend, would suddenly make a show of locating the misplaced matches. They could skip all of that if Geralt just forgot to stop by the market for matches; besides, they clearly didn’t need them.

When Geralt returned, he returned with several small fish ready to cook up and eat. With another rush of Igni, Geralt renewed the fire as he sat down and got to work. Really, it was just to prove what he’d seen before he’d left—that Jaskier liked it. Now, he had plenty of proof, and if he could find more excuses to use these signs, he was going to. This smell Jaskier had when he watched this power come forth was intriguing as much as it was—Geralt would even dare to say—arousing.

All he could imagine was that Jaskier felt the same way. Aroused. Interested, intrigued. Geralt pushed the thoughts aside and just cooked them their dinner, but that didn’t mean it was an easy feat. Each time he decided to use Igni and restart their fire, this new wave of pretty smells came from Jaskier. Once, he’d even gasped, then quickly tried to cover it up with a cough. It was endearing, and Geralt certainly wasn’t angry about it. It was just the beginning of these strange things, but the beginning of understanding what they meant.

Jaskier had been like this for as long as Geralt could remember, now that he could put a name to it. From the very first contracts together, Jaskier had seen Geralt’s use of the signs and reacted as if he’d never seen anything more impressive, more _arousing_ —because that’s what it was. Arousal. Geralt could smell it now, lingering right beneath the scent he didn’t quite have a name for. Something was stirring—that much he knew.

As the smaller of the collected fish finished, Geralt let Jaskier eat first. That wasn’t all that shocking, but Jaskier must have already been in a mood, because he hesitated to take the meal Geralt offered him, and then once he did, he hesitated to eat it.

“Geralt—we’re friends, right?” Jaskier wondered.

“Are we?” Geralt snorted.

That had Jaskier frowning, staring straight at Geralt. “Well, of course we are. Perhaps I haven’t been exactly clear on the subject, but I rather went and thought it was obvious.”

“Don’t have many friends.”

“Was my constant companionship not enough of an indicator? I do say, Geralt, you’re rather dense.”

“You’re not exactly upfront with anything,” Geralt muttered, shifting the fish over his fire and makeshift grill. “Seem perfectly content to be around if it means you get your songs.”

Jaskier sighed, deflating. He finally took his first bite, peeling the fish apart with his fingers. Once, he would have complained about how barbaric this all seemed. He was so used to the fine dining that even a minor noble would be privy to, and this was nothing like that.

“If it were just about the songs, I could easily _not_ put myself into danger and simply wait for you to return.”

Geralt quirked a small smile, then, one that died almost as fast as it had come. He glanced towards Jaskier, where he saw this eager, attentive look that had some warmth blossoming.

“We’re friends,” Geralt replied.

The smile he saw stretch across Jaskier’s face was wide, happy, and _loving_. Geralt realized it right then in the shine of Jaskier’s teeth, the twinkle of his eye at a confirmation of friendship. That thing he couldn’t quite place a name to. Geralt wouldn’t give it a name yet, but he had a better idea of what it might have meant.

After a bout of silence and the fish had finished, Geralt settled back with his own meal and a second little fish for Jaskier.

“Could head into town, next,” Geralt said. “Been a while since you’ve had a bed.”

Jaskier nearly choked on the bit of fish he swallowed. “Yes, well— We could. If you like. It might be nice to have a table to work at, too. One in a private room instead of those dusty tavern tables I’m forced to work at.”

Geralt hummed. “Should have enough coin to spend a night, at least. That work for you?”

“Anything would work at this point.” Jaskier sighed, a bit dramatically. “Even if we must share a bed, Geralt! Please, _please_ , get us an inn room. I shall even offer up some of my own meager coin, if it helps.”

Geralt grinned, then, swallowing down another bite of fish to mask it. It might have looked just as well that he was pleased with his own cooking ability that it was he was pleased with Jaskier’s outburst. If Jaskier was fine with just one bed, then that was exactly what Geralt would do, even if he had plenty of coin to get them separate rooms. It might be the perfect chance to see just how far this would go.

They arrived in the next town at the end of a long, strenuous week. Geralt had stopped them twice: once for a contract, and once for helping someone on the side of the road who was willing to pay. For those nights, they had to camp, but each night, everything was much the same. They talked around a fire that Geralt had produced, and Jaskier continued to pretend that he wasn’t as affected by these signs as he clearly was. With as close quarters as they were in, Jaskier at least kept his hands off himself, but he couldn’t take such fine care with the way that he smelled.

By the time they arrived in town, standing at the counter to pay for the singular bed, singular inn room that Jaskier swore he would be okay with, even Geralt was having trouble controlling himself. Figuring out what this particular thing meant hadn’t done him any service; in fact, it had ensured that he couldn’t think about anything else from the moment he’d discovered it to where they are now.

“That’ll be fifty crowns to stay the night,” the woman said. “Lest you be looking for a second room, that is.” She eyed Jaskier, who was standing behind Geralt and fidgeting nervously with a loose string on his lute case.

One-hundred crowns for two rooms for one night was _nothing_. Geralt certainly had the crowns for it, but instead, he just shook his head.

“Just the one,” he said. “Can’t afford more.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Aye. Witcher’s expensive but they don’t be having coin, somehow.” She snorted. “One room it is,” and then handed over the key.

Geralt ignored her comment and turned back towards Jaskier, holding up the key. At the sight of it, Jaskier’s eyes practically twinkled. He was clearly in need of some proper housing, and Geralt was happy to provide it. Though Jaskier had made enough singing in the places they stopped at, this was Geralt’s treat. Something about it felt right, this ability to provide for Jaskier, and Jaskier never complained.

“I can’t wait for a proper bath,” Jaskier sighed out, letting his eyes close. The look on his face was wistful— _pretty_.

“Then get going. We’ll take turns.”

“I’m going first,” Jaskier insisted. “I will not wash in your—” he waved his hand at Geralt, “—bloody aftermath. No thank you.”

Geralt quirked a small smile, then gestured back towards the stairs. Jaskier whirled around and started to shift his way through the patrons of the tavern. Servers and wenches and buyers alike were all over the place, but that was to be expected. If not for the fact that there was already some troubadour playing, Jaskier might have even unpacked his lute for a quick song or two. It was late, and everyone had come for a nice and pleasant drink. Geralt and Jaskier, conversely, were just looking for a bath and a nap.

So, it seemed, anyway.

As Jaskier carved a path through the people, Geralt followed. Up the stairs they went, then to the left. Geralt had gotten them the largest room this little place had to offer, and though that wasn’t saying much. It meant there was a tub that was filled with warm water, a bed, and a table. The moment they were inside of the room, the door securely locked behind them, Jaskier was already shuffling over to the water. It was so nice that even in such a backward little town that they understood the finer things in life, and that was _soap_ and hot water.

“Geralt, this is just positively lovely,” Jaskier said.

Before he’d even gotten around the screen, he was disrobing. Geralt chanced a look, managing only to see the fine expanse of Jaskier’s back before Jaskier was out of his sight. While Jaskier did that, Geralt settled himself at the table to start removing his armor.

“Really, thank you.” Jaskier’s voice came out much more sincere, this time, like he’d taken Geralt’s talk at their camp some week earlier to heart. He _wasn_ _’t_ upfront with much, leaving it to Geralt to just discern things. As that wasn’t Geralt’s forte, this was better.

“It’s no problem,” Geralt replied, setting his swords on the table. “Nice place for you to work, too.”

Jaskier beamed behind the screen, unlacing his breeches. His boots were already set aside, and his doublet and chemise had been shucked off before he even got back here.

“Thank you,” Jaskier said again. “I—well.” Jaskier shook his head. “Could you light the candles? It’s a bit dark in here.”

Geralt glanced up, having finished with his gauntlets and his boots. “You mean back there?”

Jaskier swallowed and finished with his smalls. He didn’t have to answer the question when Geralt heard the sloshing of the water. Jaskier stepped in and settled down, resting against the side of the tub with his knees up to his chest.

“Yes, please,” he muttered. There was nothing for Geralt to see, not that Jaskier could fathom Geralt _wanting_ to see. They were two friends sharing a room at the inn for a night.

With Jaskier’s insistence, Geralt came around the screen to do just as he was asked. While he lit each candle, one at a time, he noticed the look on Jaskier’s face. He’d looked rather _terrified_ , at first, when Geralt had joined him, but now he just looked flushed. On the floor at the side of the tub was Jaskier’s bag and his lute, with the bag being slightly open from how it had been tossed down. Geralt could see the matches, but he lit the last candle with a cast of Igni, anyway.

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispered.

Geralt quirked a grin then stepped away. He could smell it already, Jaskier’s reaction to the sight of signs. They were in close quarters, now, but Jaskier had certainly perfected his sneaking over the years. Though Geralt could smell him—and he still hadn’t seemed to have notice—he didn’t make any noise. Not even the scent in the room spiked with arousal, Geralt heard nothing but the movement of water perfectly in order for a man bathing himself.

There was nothing but silence and the sound of water until Jaskier was finished bathing, and he took no longer than Geralt had become accustomed to. The only time Jaskier was any faster in the bath was when they were bathing out in open water and needed to be vigilant. Faster bathing helped, then, but within the safety of the tavern, there was no reason for him to hurry, so he didn’t. Jaskier stepped out around the screen wrapped in clean, warm towels and smelling like soap.

“Your turn,” Jaskier said, keeping his eyes downcast. “Water should still be warm.”

Without a word, Geralt stood from the chair and took his place behind the screen, where he was _assaulted_ with the residual smell Jaskier left behind. He straightened, swallowing the lump in his throat, and tried to ignore it—if that were possible. These senses weren’t something that he could switch off whenever he so pleased. If he could, he wouldn’t have to smell Jaskier’s arousal as he sank down into the water, and he wouldn’t have to think about what Jaskier had _done_ back here.

Really, it was inappropriate. They were friends. Jaskier confirmed it; Geralt confirmed it right back. There didn’t have to be anything more, but how could Geralt deny this. Even just looking through the water, it was like he could see Jaskier doing _something_ —but what? What did he do to himself, and why did Geralt care so much? His next breath was almost shuddering, but he took it regardless, and tried to focus on taking his bath.

While he bathed, Geralt came to a single conclusion: that neither of them could continue like this. He’d seen Jaskier’s own reaction, that it was even difficult to look at Geralt, to ask for something as simple as lighting a candle. Geralt couldn’t handle swimming in these smells anymore, either, not without being able to do something about them. As long as he had this resolve, he wasn’t going to let it waste. They needed to sort this out now before one of them screwed up somewhere dangerous.

With his bath finished, Geralt stepped out, dried, and put on a cleaner change of clothes. This wasn’t exactly the kind of conversation he wanted to have naked, though his urgency was telling him this conversation needed to happen now, clothes be damned. He managed back into his smalls, trousers, and a shirt before finally stepping out from the screen.

What he was met with had him stalling: Jaskier was set up at the table, as he expected, with parchment and his quill set, but the candle was out. There wasn’t exactly a breeze within the room, which meant Jaskier must have blown the candle out—whether purposefully or not.

“Ah, Geralt.” Jaskier looked at him but didn’t. Looked through him, as if he couldn’t meet Geralt’s gaze. “Had a nice bath? Good, then. I’m glad to hear it.”

He hadn’t waited for a reply, so Geralt just raised his brow.

“Seems to be a draft coming from somewhere, though I suppose you can’t expect much from these rundown little places, can you?” Jaskier gave a nervous smile and a laugh. “It went and blew my candle out. Could you be a dear and relight it for me?”

“Couldn’t just grab another candle?”

“Yes, well—” Jaskier choked on his words. How did he explain that away? “It’s my foot, you see. Acting up, as it was before, so I thought I might rest it. Besides, it isn’t as if I’ve been without immediate light for too long. Would you please, Geralt?”

Geralt sighed, then cast the sign. Instead of looking at the candle when he did it, he looked specifically at Jaskier, who wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that it was less about the sign and who it was casting the sign. Even if the rush of magic had him almost visibly shuddering, he didn’t watch the candlelight, and he didn’t seem to care that it had been lit. It was all about watching Geralt having that much _power_ over something so uncontrollable. It had to be.

“We need to talk about this,” Geralt said. “You’re going to get hurt.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, suddenly back in reality. “Whatever do you mean?”

“ _This_ , Jaskier. This thing that you do. Seen you put yourself in _danger_ just to watch me with, what, a hope that I’ll use one of the signs?” Geralt came closer to the table, sitting down, despite how much Jaskier clearly wished he wouldn’t. “Tell you to stay put, and you won’t. I can smell you; you know.”

Jaskier’s face suddenly flushed. “Well. That would have been nice to know.”

“Seen your matches, too, in your bag. Hiding them so you can ask me to light fires and candles for you? Been doing this for months, Jaskier—years, even. Maybe I just didn’t notice soon enough.”

Jaskier squirmed, then frowned all of the sudden. “What of you, then? You spend all this time acting as if I couldn’t possibly mean less to you, only to find yourself hurt on _numerous_ occasions simply because you were too busy ensuring my safety to watch out for yourself. Which, I of course notice and appreciate, but it is dangerous!”

Geralt shook his head, sighing and resting forward on the table. “Jaskier—”

“You didn’t notice soon enough,” he said, cutting Geralt’s off. “Just while we’re putting things out there; I thought you might like to know.”

Geralt’s brow quirked.

“I can’t help myself, Geralt, you must understand. From the moment I first saw you use your—signs, you call them—I was stricken. I couldn’t help but wish to watch. Whatever happened afterward was accidental at best, and I did try to keep it from you. Perhaps I should have done more research about Witchers, but it’s not exactly a class at Oxenfurt.”

That at least had Geralt scoffing. Amused. They were a couple of fools. Quite the pair.

“What exactly did happen afterward?” Geralt asked. He knew the name of it, but he wanted Jaskier to say it.

Jaskier sighed. “It’s quite simple, Geralt. Seeing that sort of—thing, power, I suppose, I don’t know—it’s _arousing_. Surely, you understand. You’ve never kept your glances at a certain sorceress hidden.”

Geralt rolled his eyes.

“What happened afterward, I suppose, was a misstep on my part. It’s hard not to begin to care more for someone who is willing to put themselves in danger to ensure your safety. As I said, I noticed, and I appreciated every moment. Even if it meant I had to later wrap your wounds. I knew where the wounds were from, and that you might say was enough to endear me.”

Endearment wasn’t exactly the word Geralt was looking for, but it sorted itself out well enough.

“It’s hard not to feel the same way for someone when they throw themselves into danger just to be at your side,” was Geralt’s response. He couldn’t meet Jaskier’s gaze as his words finished, but he could see the widening of his eyes.

Just like that, everything was out in the open. All of it. Everything. Where did it go from here? All Jaskier knew to do was just sit there, fidgeting enough that he could be comfortable. He hadn’t written down a single thing, and that was only illuminated by Geralt’s Igni-lit candle.

“What exactly can you smell?” Jaskier asked, dipping his quill into the jar of ink.

“Everything.”

Jaskier’s nose crinkled. “Could you elaborate, perhaps? Consider it research.”

Geralt snorted. That was a lie. “You used a mint-based soap,” Geralt said. “Just now, in the bath. It’s like I can track your path through this room just by the smell of it. To answer the question you’re really asking,” Geralt put his chin in his hand, then looked directly at Jaskier, “I can smell when you’re aroused. Know every time you sneak away to jerk off.”

Jaskier closed his eyes and breathed as deeply as he could with the flush in his face. “And?”

“Haven’t had a problem with it yet. Don’t think I will, any time soon. In fact,” Geralt stood up, then, “been thinking about it.”

Jaskier’s eyes jolted right back open, wide as they watched Geralt approach. “I—well. Didn’t think that would be the reaction you might have.”

“It’s about the signs, isn’t it?” Geralt asked. “Already admitted it might even be about who’s casting those signs.”

“Right, well. Yes. I suppose I did allude to that, didn’t I?” Jaskier couldn’t meet Geralt’s gaze, but he swallowed down a hard lump in his throat.

“What’s your answer, then?” Geralt offered his hand, and Jaskier stared at it for a long, painful amount of time.

“I’m not opposed,” Jaskier said, but his voice was choked. It wasn’t much of an answer. “I mean, really—I’d be flattered. Honored. I thought—” Why was this so difficult? “I thought you were rather fond of Yennefer.”

“I’m rather fond of you,” Geralt said. “Enough to take you to bed, if you’ll let me.”

“Enough for long walks under the moonlight?” Jaskier said, wincing. It was the best way he could ask Geralt if this was about sex or a relationship without _asking_ if this was about sex or a relationship.

“Might even kiss you in the moonlight, if that’s what you like.”

That was the only answer Jaskier needed. Geralt knew what he meant and answered in a way that he understood. Just like that, Jaskier put his hand in Geralt’s and allowed himself to be pulled up to his feet. The moment he was steady, Geralt let go of him.

“If you ever want anything to stop, just tell me,” Geralt said.

Jaskier nodded. “I know what a safe word is, Geralt. You’re not exactly the first man who’s welcomed me into his bed. I’ll tell you if I need to stop.”

Just like that, Geralt held up his hand. Jaskier had only seconds to watch it—the movement of Geralt’s fingers, his wrist, before he was suddenly being thrown back with a great, unseen force. But he knew what it was. He knew it was _Aard_ that had pushed him on the bed, and the moment Jaskier’s back hit the mattress, he sucked down a deep breath. Already panting. That power used on _him_. Jaskier had been expecting a sweet romp in the sheets, but he got this instead.

“Do listen when you talk about your _conquests_ ,” Geralt said. “Know you like it rough.”

What was Jaskier supposed to say to that? He couldn’t, because Geralt was on the bed with him next, shifting him up towards the pillows with so little ease that Jaskier knew he was using signs again, another brush of Aard to move Jaskier exactly where he wanted him.

“Hands up,” Geralt said, and Jaskier scrambled to comply. “Want you to tell me what you did in the tub. I could smell it.”

Jaskier shuddered, moving his arms up above his head. Geralt busied himself with Jaskier’s clothes, though he’d hardly gotten dressed. He was wearing nothing but his chemise and a pair of half-laced trousers. It wouldn’t be hard to see him naked, again.

“Touched myself,” Jaskier admitted, breath shaking. Geralt shot him a glare that meant he _knew_ Jaskier had done that. He wanted to know the details. Wanted to know what it meant, where this was heading—what Jaskier _liked_.

Jaskier sucked in a deep breath, moving so Geralt could get his shirt off of him. “Just a quick pull off,” Jaskier admitted. “When it needs to be quick.”

Geralt quirked an eyebrow, leaning down. “Weren’t quick tonight, Jaskier. What did you do?”

When Geralt’s fingers got to his laces, Jaskier found that breathing was almost impossible. He wanted to help, but a part of him said that Geralt hadn’t allowed him to move his arms, so he kept them above his head and pressed to the mattress. Geralt did the work on his own, making deft work of Jaskier’s laces and grabbing the waistband of his trousers.

“I couldn’t help myself,” Jaskier breathed out. “They had such nice oils for us. I’ve never seen such a selection at a place like this, you must understand. It was far too tempting.”

As Geralt pulled Jaskier’s trousers down, finding no smalls underneath, he could smell what Jaskier was talking about. This scent that wasn’t the same as the soap he’d used to watch, but something more, and it was concentrated down between his thighs. Already, Geralt found himself shuddering. He couldn’t bother with pulling Jaskier’s trousers the rest of the way down.

“Tell me,” he gruffed, leaning down to nose along the crook of Jaskier’s thigh. He kisses the skin, feeling the way Jaskier quivers beneath him.

“I couldn’t help myself,” Jaskier repeats. “Pressed my fingers inside of myself—thinking of _you_ , that it was your fingers.”

Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s hips and yanked him down just enough that they could kiss. Their lips slammed together, teeth clacking from the force of it, and Jaskier moaned. His thighs fell open around Geralt’s giving Geralt the chance to move closer, to hover over top of him hunched and near-feral like a beast. The moment they parted, Jaskier could see it, and it went straight to his cock. Geralt could see it twitch, _smell_ Jaskier’s growing arousal, and reacted to it just as fast.

“That how you want it, then?” Geralt asked, shifting forward. He was still dressed, but he pressed their hips together anyway, and Jaskier gasped at the feeling of Geralt’s rough, leather pants against his straining cock. “Want me to fuck you?”

Jaskier nodded. “Please.”

 _That_ was something Geralt needed to explore. He liked the sound of it, Jaskier begging for him. For the moment, there were more important things to focus on, and it was still this budding interest Jaskier had in Geralt’s signs.

Geralt sat back, and Jaskier watched him closely as he raised his hand once more. This was one that Jaskier saw less of, so he didn’t recognize it immediately. All he knew was that, suddenly, he couldn’t move. This force landed on top of him and trapped him where he was.

“Geralt—”

“Yrden,” Geralt told him. “Creates a trap. Keep you still.”

Jaskier swallowed, almost _whimpered_. Nothing had happened, not so much as a touch beyond the roll of Geralt’s hips, and he was already achingly hard. Now that he couldn’t _move_ , everything was worse. Heightened. Just at the first touch of Geralt’s hands against his hips, Jaskier yelped.

For what he could still move, he used it and tilted his head to the side, trying to hide the flush in his face. Geralt just touched him, slowly moving his hands from Jaskier’s hips to his sides, to his chest, and then up over his shoulders to take hold of his jaw and tilt his head back. Geralt met him again with a kiss, softer this time, yet somehow twice as demanding. Jaskier found he was helpless to it, and when Geralt’s tongue pressed against his lips, his mouth fell open and took it.

Geralt rutted against Jaskier, practically fucking him already with how he moved. Each time their hips moved together, Jaskier groaned against the kiss, shaking beneath Geralt. The only change came when Geralt moved his hands between them, but then Jaskier could feel _skin_ against his cock instead of just the roughness of leather. Almost frantically, Geralt pulled open the laces of his own trousers before finally pulling back away from the kiss.

Jaskier couldn’t follow. The trap Geralt laid kept him right where he was meant to be, spread out on the bed and watching as Geralt started to strip himself. He made quick work of it, never once taking his eyes off of Jaskier. Conversely, Jaskier’s gaze roamed from Geralt’s face, down the expense of his chest, and to his _cock_ , once Geralt had divested himself of his trousers.

“You leave the oil over by the tub?”

Jaskier nodded. “It’s—”

“I know which one,” he said, leaning back down over Jaskier. “Can smell it on you,” he reminded in a deep, low voice.

That left Jaskier shuddering, but he couldn’t do anything as Geralt stepped away. He could barely strain to watch Geralt walk, but what he could see, he could definitely appreciate. Geralt’s muscled rippled through his back when he moved, and his ass wasn’t half bad. A bit flat, but Jaskier had never paid too much attention. What he cared more about was when Geralt came back out from around the screen, the little vial in his hand, and Jaskier could see his cock.

It was thick, only half-hard between his thighs, and Jaskier _wanted_ it. Wanted to his get his hands on it, his mouth on it. More importantly, he wanted to know what it was going to feel like inside of him, splitting him open. Just the thought had him shifting, groaning as Geralt joined him back on the bed.

Jaskier couldn’t move himself, but _Geralt_ could, and Geralt forced his thighs apart to give himself space to settle. He had Jaskier’s knees slightly bent, his feet planted in the mattress, and once again, that heavy force settled over Jaskier and kept him just like that.

“Geralt—” Jaskier’s voice sounded choked, desperate.

“Plenty of time,” Geralt responded. “No need to be quick.”

Jaskier shuddered, nodding weakly. Geralt had a hand on him again, resting right in the crook of his hip. His other hand had Jaskier’s attention, though, because it was still up in the air. Though Jaskier tried to move, could feel himself squirming, he didn’t. Yrden kept him entirely still against the bed, helpless to whatever Geralt would do.

Suddenly, Geralt’s touch turned _warm_ , just as he passed over Jaskier’s chest. It went from warm to hot, almost searing against Jaskier’s skin as Geralt did nothing more than pet him. Jaskier panted, his breath quickening as the heat increased. He tried to move, like he might escape it, but he couldn’t. And he _liked_ it, he found. His cock was aching, twitching against his thigh, and pearling with precum right at the tip.

“Igni,” Geralt told him, voice quiet.

Jaskier understood, but he didn’t have the focus to put any words together. Knowing that it was Geralt’s _sign_ warming his skin left Jaskier breathless, trying desperately to squirm and rut himself up into the touch. Geralt’s warming hand moved down his chest and over his hips, just before Geralt suddenly grasped his cock.

“ _Fuck_ —” Jaskier cried. Despite Yrden holding him down, his back still arched, and his hips bucked.

Jaskier gripped his hands into fists, tilting his head to the side as he writhed against the sheets. The warmth spread through him, prickling bits of pain here and there, but it was the pleasure that overwhelmed Jaskier. Like he could come just from this, Geralt’s hot hand around his cock.

“More,” Jaskier begged. He wanted everything, and he wanted it now.

He wanted to pull Geralt down and kiss him just as much as he wanted to take Geralt inside of him immediately. Instead, he had to suffice for lying there, hips bucking uselessly as Geralt stroked him. It was slow, _teasing_. Something that Jaskier wouldn’t have ever fathomed Geralt knew how to do. Jaskier had always imagined it rough, quick, but this was almost _loving_. It had to be, the words that they’d already shared; Jaskier didn’t know what to do with it other than take it, and every second of it was another burning jolt of pleasure.

Panting, Jaskier shifted against the bed, his cock throbbing in Geralt’s hold. He tried desperately to rut his hips up, but he couldn’t. Even unable to strain his head to watch, all he could do was feel as Geralt’s hand moved along the length of his shaft.

Geralt knew just how to move his hand, twisting back and forth. When he came over the head of Jaskier’s cock, he pressed his searingly hot fingers right over the tip, smearing the pearling precum. Jaskier yelped and gave a jolt like that was enough to have him jumping, but Yrden kept him pressed down against the bed. Watching him writhe was enough to have Geralt’s own cock fully hard, now, though he ignored it in turn for _this_. This was a sight, just touching Jaskier. Every pass of Geralt’s hand pulled another desperate noise from Jaskier’s throat.

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” Jaskier cried. “I’m—don’t want to. Geralt, _please_ —don’t want to come. Don’t want this to _end_ —”

“Doesn’t have to,” Geralt promised, leaning over Jaskier. He thumbed right over Jaskier’s slit, silencing his pleas in turn for gasps. “Can come as many times as you want. Won’t stop.”

Jaskier shook his head. “Don’t want to. Make it stop— _fuck_ — That one. The sign. Know you can use it.” Jaskier sounded absolutely wrecked. “Make it stop, Geralt, _please_.”

Geralt smirked. Jaskier understood a second later when the heat against his skin suddenly started to die down, but it was worth it. Geralt raised his hand in front of Jaskier’s face, leaning over him to cast the sign.

“You’re not going to orgasm,” Geralt said. He knew the importance of being specific.

Just like that, Jaskier felt his pleasure die. It went from this burning fire pitted in his hips to nothing more than a smolder, and that sudden drop was enough that he cried out, writhed against the bed frame.

“Not going to,” he repeated, mouth dry and words slur.

“Not until I say so,” Geralt continued.

Jaskier’s head jolted with an attempt at nodding, though Yrden continued to keep him mostly still. “Until you say so,” he repeated again. His eyes were misty, but when Geralt’s hand dropped and the heat returned, he jolted right back into the present with a loud cry.

Geralt’s searingly warm hands moved over his chest, fingers ghosting right over his stiffening nipples. Jaskier gasped at the touch, trying to move, arch into it—when he couldn’t manage, Geralt still took pity on him and grabbed at his chest, digging the heels of his palms right over Jaskier’s nipples. Every touch left Jaskier moaning, shifting helplessly on the bed.

“Geralt—”

“Never would have thought,” Geralt responded, cutting Jaskier’s desperate plea right off at his throat. “Look so pretty like this, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shuddered, closing his eyes. “ _Please_ ,” he gasped. Now that the burning pit of pleasure was returning, he found himself desperate and uncomfortable. Nothing was happening—it amounted to nothing. Jaskier was just left there to wallow in whatever feelings Geralt would give him, and they were _good_.

Geralt pinched at his nipples, shifting closer to slot their bodies together. Like that, every light shift of Geralt’s hips had their cocks brushing together, and as if Jaskier could still remember the _warmth,_ it left him crying out. One of Geralt’s hands moved back, the heat in Jaskier’s chest died down, and Axii returned.

“Spread your legs,” Geralt commanded.

Jaskier would have done that anyway, but something about being _forced_ to left him shuddering. As his legs spread open, Jaskier’s jaw dropped down in a low, quiet moan. He couldn’t even mourn the loss of Geralt’s other hand, nor the loss of Igni against his sin, because Geralt was reaching down for that vial of oil.

“ _Hurry_ , Geralt—”

“Oh, now you want to come?” Geralt chuckled to himself, drizzling oil over his fingers.

“Yes,” Jaskier hissed. “Don’t—laugh at me. _Fuck_ , Geralt, it hurts.”

“I’ll take care of you.” Geralt leaned over Jaskier, bracing himself on one hand while the other slipped between his thighs. “Don’t I always?”

A hard jolt spun through Jaskier’s spine, leaving him breathless— _hot_ , quick pleasure that resulted in nothing more than a pathetic jolt of his cock. This wasn’t fair. But Geralt was right, playing directly towards the talk they’d hard earlier. Geralt was always taking care of him. Ensuring he had a place to sleep, food to eat, and proper places to hide so he wasn’t put in any danger. Geralt was just taking that care to a new level like this: his fingers suddenly brushing over Jaskier’s hole.

Jaskier nodded weakly, or tried to, and then let his eyes close. He tried to focus on the feeling—Geralt’s fingers circling around his hole. He’d already done part of the work, but apparently, Geralt didn’t want to miss this for the world. Jaskier didn’t either, not as Geralt’s fingers started to heat against his skin.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jaskier cried. “If I’d known, would have asked for this sooner. _Inside_ me, Witcher, please.”

Geralt took the command to heart and pressed two fingers inside, immediately. The heat was immense, but nothing so much that Jaskier couldn’t handle it. At the touch, the sudden stretch through is body, Jaskier just breathed harder. He closed his eyes tighter, chewing on his bottom lip as Geralt’s fingers filled him. The warmth came with them, budding deeper and deeper until Geralt’s hand was pressed against him. Only then did Jaskier feel like he could even take a true breath, just panting up until that point.

Jaskier’s cock twitched against his hip, just as desperate for his release as he was now, but he’d asked for this. He didn’t want it to end. For as long as it possibly good, Jaskier wanted _this_ to happen, and he wasn’t insofar disappointed. Not when Geralt started to move his fingers, rocking them in and out of Jaskier’s body. He spread them inside, scissoring his fingers a part to stretch Jaskier open. And finally, finally—Jaskier found himself able to rock his hips.

“What—?” He wondered, but he wasn’t going to look at this gift too hard, not when it meant he didn’t have to be a passive recipient.

“Yrden doesn’t last forever,” Geralt told him, and he sounded so taken with the sight before him.

Now that he could move, Jaskier rocked himself down desperately onto Geralt’s fingers, working them inside of himself where he could. He wanted to take his own pleasure, and Geralt was happy to just watch for a moment. The sight of it went straight to his own cock, and with a desperate hand, Geralt moved down to grab hold of himself and squeeze, as if that were all it took to stave off his impending orgasm.

“Hurry,” Jaskier gasped. “Need more. Take your time with me some other night. _Fuck_ , I need more, Geralt. Please—”

“I’ve got you,” Geralt promised. With the hand that had just been on his cock, Geralt signed Axii once more. “Relax,” he commanded, though his voice was soft and warm.

“Relax,” Jaskier repeated, half-drunk from the feeling already.

Every muscle in his body just went limp, and he found it suddenly difficult to move his hips against Geralt’s fingers, but he didn’t need to. Now that he was relaxed, just as Geralt commanded him to be, Geralt had no trouble moving forward. He pressed his fingers against Jaskier, working as quickly as he was able. His fingers dragged along Jaskier’s walls, pulling subtle cries from his throat. Jaskier could hardly move, a new form of restraint, but he could shift, he could _writhe_.

He was a sight, and Geralt couldn’t help his own groan as he watched Jaskier’s reaction to that third finger. A flush spread down his chest as his brows pushed up, and his lips parted with a breathless, desperate moan. His body was shaking with pleasure that he couldn’t quite half, his orgasm still denied. That just made Geralt’s touch more intense, like every swipe of his fingers was about to push Jaskier over an edge that he couldn’t see. Feeling how Geralt pressed against his walls, massaged him open, had Jaskier moaning.

When Geralt’s fingers pulled away, Jaskier didn’t even have the strength to complain. He felt helpless, _useless_ as Geralt moved him around, shifted him so that he was pulled flush against Geralt’s own hips. Like that, Jaskier could feel _and_ see were Geralt’s cock rested against him. With how Geralt had moved him, Jaskier’s hips were canted up, his legs hooked over Geralt’s own. It was the perfect framing, the perfect view to watch as Geralt coated his own cock in oil; Jaskier moaned.

“Please,” he managed to say, voice hoarse in his throat. “Geralt—”

“You are noisy,” was Geralt’s response, but he said it with such a fondness that Jaskier couldn’t help but think that he liked it.

“Let me ride your cock one night,” Jaskier continued, just babbling. “Show you how noisy I am then— _fuck_ —”

Jaskier threw his head back, gasping as Geralt started to push into him. Just the head of his cock was thick enough that Jaskier could feel the stretch breaching through him, and it left his breath quickened. He tried to grab onto the sheets for purchase, only to find that even his fingers were too relaxed to get a grip on anything. He really was helpless, able to do no more than lay there as Geralt held him down and pressed inside. It was such a slow, purposeful thing that Jaskier swore he could have come from this alone—but he _couldn_ _’t_.

Geralt took no time after that. The moment he was fully seated, Geralt started to move. With a hard grasp on Jaskier’s hips, he pulled Jaskier down to meet every hard thrust fucked through him, and Jaskier was nothing but a mess after that. The way their hips slapped together, the noises between them; all Jaskier could do was cry out, grasping desperately at linens that he couldn’t take hold of. Geralt had him. It was Geralt’s strength that moved him back and forth, dragging him along the bed with the force of his thrusts.

“Fuck— _fuck_ ,” Jaskier cried. “Geralt, _Geralt_ , please, please— _fuck_ —” He was just babbling, but he couldn’t _do_ anything else. He couldn’t pull himself up and grab at Geralt, as he couldn’t even grab the sheets.

In response, he heard the low, guttural moans from Geralt’s throat. He was so caught up in the feeling, how tight and _hot_ Jaskier was around him. Plenty of brothels, plenty of women, even a few _men_ , but how many of them had ever felt like this? Geralt couldn’t help but fall over top of Jaskier, bracing himself right at Jaskier’s shoulders. Like this, the sudden change in angle and how Jaskier’s hips folded up, Jaskier’s breath suddenly quickened. A sharp cry broke form his throat, one that Geralt swallowed with a sudden heady kiss.

Jaskier moaned against Geralt’s lips, letting his lips fall open so their tongues could meet. Geralt practically devoured him, using his teeth, his tongue, licking through Jaskier’s mouth with all the fervor he could muster. Every breath was punctuated by a hard slap of his hips, hard enough that they shifted up the bed and Geralt just continued to crowd forward. Jaskier was enveloped, taken—hidden from the world. He’d never _felt_ so taken care of, and it just added to the growing fire in his stomach.

“Please,” Jaskier managed to say in the midst of a breath. “Want to come. Geralt, _please_ —”

“Soon,” Geralt promised. “ _Fuck_ , just—let me—”

Jaskier had never heard Geralt sound so wrecked before, and that was all he needed to be silent again. He could look at this forever: Geralt’s face scrunched up in absolutely, perfect pleasure as he buried himself into Jaskier over and over again, raptured by the feeling of Jaskier’s walls clenching and releasing around him. They rutted together, moving together desperately, each one of them taken with their own pleasure and these noises that the other couldn’t help but make.

When Geralt felt his own orgasm threatening to spill, he pushed himself back up and locked his elbows. Though it lost Jaskier some of his warmth, having found that Geralt’s entire _body_ was on fire, Jaskier hardly took the time to notice. Geralt was staring at him, pupil’s blown like a cat looking at his favorite toy. Jaskier was taken by it and couldn’t help but stare back, and that was when he heard it.

At Geralt’s order, Jaskier’s orgasm broke through him and left him near screaming. His hips bucked, his back arched, and his cock twitched between them as it spent over his stomach. The pleasure was long lasting, immediately, and Jaskier couldn’t help but shake and cry and grasp at anything he could reach. He hadn’t expected that, and with how long it had been denied to him, it hit all the harder.

The sudden tightness Jaskier presented, the way that his face scrunched up, had Geralt following right after. He hadn’t meant for it. Had meant to ask. But all of the sudden, his hips were fucking forward on their own, and that was all it took for Geralt to tumble right over the edge with Jaskier. Geralt’s elbow gave out, and he fell right over Jaskier, too.

“Heavy,” Jaskier complained, but he was breathless, too relaxed to do anything about it.

Geralt stayed like that for a minute before he pushed himself back up, sitting on his calves. He hadn’t pulled back, but for the moment, he didn’t want to. He had to see this beautiful thing beneath him—Jaskier’s thighs spread out around him, stomach painted white from his orgasm. Jaskier’s cock was half-hard against his thigh, and nearly all of his skin had turned a lovely pink. Even now, Jaskier was still panting, struggling to catch himself. Geralt couldn’t help himself.

“Orgasm,” he said. The Axii was still there, after all.

Jaskier _did_. Suddenly, he clenched down around Geralt’s cock and cried out, his own prick twitching uselessly where it lay. It was dry, but the pleasure worked through him just as hard as it had before, leaving Jaskier writhing and grasping and shaking, his eyes nearly gone back in his head.

“Fuck!” Jaskier cried, his head thrown back. “Geralt— _Geralt_ , Melitele’s tits, what was that?”

Geralt offered a kind smirk, running his hands down Jaskier’s chest. “Just wanted to try it out. Look like you enjoyed yourself.”

Jaskier was panting, but he still managed just enough of himself to frown. “You’re a menace, Witcher.”

“Be your menace, if you let me.”

At that, Jaskier softened. “Yeah—” He swallowed. He wasn’t about to admit that the idea of Geralt having _that_ kind of control over him was almost more arousing than just watching him perform these signs. That was for another day. He could at least admit that he wanted to keep Geralt around for as long as he could. Maybe not so much as friends this time as something more.

**Author's Note:**

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